“This little donzella, will have her revenge when she grows up.  Recollecting how one man teased her in childhood, she, in return, will consider herself justified in teasing all men.  Do you not agree with me, madame?” I said, turning to my wife, who gave me a sweetly coquettish look as she answered: 

“Well, really, conte, I do not know!  For with the remembrance of one man who teased her, must come also the thought of another who was kind to her—­yourself—­she will find it difficult to decide the juste milieu.”

A subtle compliment was meant to be conveyed in these words.  I acknowledged it by a silent gesture of admiration, which she quickly understood and accepted.  Was ever a man in the position of being delicately flattered by his own wife before?  I think not!  Generally married persons are like candid friends—­fond of telling each other very unpleasant truths, and altogether avoiding the least soupcon of flattery.  Though I was not so much flattered as amused—­considering the position of affairs.  Just then a servant threw open the door and announced dinner.  I set my child very gently down from my knee and whisperingly told her that I would come and see her soon again.  She smiled trustfully, and then in obedience to her mother’s imperative gesture, slipped quietly out of the room.  As soon as she had gone I praised her beauty warmly, for she was really a lovely little thing--but I could see my admiration of her was not very acceptable to either my wife or her lover.  We all went in to dinner—­I, as guest, having the privilege of escorting my fair and spotless spouse!  On our reaching the dining-room Nina said—­

“You are such an old friend of the family, conte, that perhaps you will not mind sitting at the head of the table?”

“Tropp’ onore, signora!” I answered, bowing gallantly, as I at once resumed my rightful place at my own table, Ferrari placing himself on my right hand, Nina on my left.  The butler, my father’s servant and mine, stood as of old behind my chair, and I noticed that each time he supplied me with wine he eyed me with a certain timid curiosity—­but I knew I had a singular and conspicuous appearance, which easily accounted for his inquisitiveness.  Opposite to where I sat, hung my father’s portrait—­the character I personated permitted me to look at it fixedly and give full vent to the deep sigh which in very earnest broke from my heart.  The eyes of the picture seemed to gaze into mine with a sorrowful compassion—­almost I fancied the firm-set lips trembled and moved to echo my sigh.

“Is that a good likeness?” Ferrari asked, suddenly.

I started, and recollecting myself, answered:  “Excellent!  So true a resemblance that it arouses along train of memories in my mind—­ memories both bitter and sweet.  Ah! what a proud fellow he was!”

“Fabio was also very proud,” chimed in my wife’s sweet voice.  “Very cold and haughty.”